


Picturesque Secrets

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Attempt Humour, F/M, Humour, Jealous Sherlock, Light Angst, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor John, Ridiculous Plot, Sexual Humour, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, snapchat shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8505442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: He hadn't sent it to Sheri. He'd sent it to Sherlock instead.Fuck.Fuckity fuck!





	1. Prologue

John was horny. He was also home alone.

This wasn't a usual occurrence in itself, normally he had to contend with Sherlock's sour black moods, or him puttering around the kitchen causing some experiment or another, but since he had left to visit Molly and a pair of septic feet at Barts, John had the entire house to himself.

Lying back on the sofa, he ran his hand along the shaft of his already half hard penis and moaned, feeling filthy at doing this in the living room. Feeling a little naughty, he stroked himself to a full erection and freed his cock from his jeans, reaching for his phone and holding his penis still whilst he focussed his camera on it, taking a (quite flattering) photo of the red tip just poking from the tight hug of his foreskin. He clicked on the button to share, finding the Snapchat app and skimming through the contacts until he reached his girlfriend’s name.  
Sheri was a nurse at the practice, a beautiful Indian woman with the prettiest dark eyes that John had ever seen. They had been together a few months and had recently become intimate in that time, enjoying teasing one another with photos and risqué messages intending on titillating one another.

Anticipating Sheri’s response, John groaned, throwing his head back as his thumb stroked across his slit and spread the wetness before pressing the send button on his phone. There was a click to show the message had sent and John looked at his phone briefly, intending on putting it down, only… fuck. He hadn't sent it to Sheri. He'd sent it to Sherlock instead.

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck!

Panicking slightly, John dropped his cock with a thud against his belly and scrambled to ring Sherlock to warn him, but he didn't have chance, the message was already showing that Sherlock had opened the photo.

John sat up, wincing at the slight tug on his erection as it bent the wrong way. Pressing harder than was strictly necessary, John dialled Sherlock and listened to the phone ring and ring and ring and ring, with no answer. That wasn't possible. Sherlock had used his phone moments ago to open the picture; he had to be there! John tried again, and again, but after the fourth try he called Molly instead.

“Hi John!” She said happily after only two and a half rings. “You alright?”

“Is Sherlock with you?” John said rather rudely. “Is he there?”

“Yes. He's – here. He's doing that zoned out memory thing again. He's just staring at his phone.” Molly explained. “Should I tap him?”

“Yes please.” John said, rubbing his face roughly.

“Sherlock?” John could hear Molly speaking in the background. “Sherlock, John's on the phone for you?”

“Yes.” John could make out Sherlock rumbling in a sort of breathily sort of way, sounding distracted and lost and ignorant. “I see that.”

John groaned and put his head in his hands as Molly chuckled and apparently nudged him, “Here. Talk to him.”

There was the sound of a phone being passed over before John spoke, “Hello? Sherlock?”

There was a moment of silence, of nothing but Sherlock’s breathing, and then there were a few hitches in a sudden, loud inhale and Sherlock finally replied, still sounding somewhat dazed, “What?”

“Sherlock. Its me.” John said stupidly. “Sherlock, I – I'm sorry. That wasn't supposed to go to you. It was a mistake. Can you just – delete it? From your memory I mean?”

“Delete what?” Sherlock asked him, sounding irritated and completely normal, which both confused and angered John in equal measure. “John, I’m fairly busy, can we not speak once I get home? Is it really so urgent that you call me?”

“My – My penis.” John mumbled, mortified at having the conversation. “Unless – shit, did you already delete it and I've just reminded you?”

“If I had deleted something, then surely I would not remember it because I deleted it, so why would I be able to answer and say if you are reminding me of something I’ve already deleted, without having known what I recently deleted, which would mean I didn’t actually delete it,” Sherlock said and then went quiet for a second, clearly realising how strange and silly what he had just said had sounded. “You know what I mean--” There was the sudden sound of his footsteps and Molly stuttering about having her phone back, and then a door closed and Sherlock’s tone changed. “I’m not an idiot. I know it wasn’t for me, John.”

“Good. It was for Sheri. Obviously your names are close in my contacts. I'm sorry.” John breathed, feeling slightly more in control. “Right. Okay. I'll let you go then. I just wanted to say sorry.”

“Perhaps I ought to just delete this App, that way you cannot send me crude photos by accident – Is this truly what you do when you’re not working?” Sherlock asked. “Have you always been doing this? – How pedestrian.” 

John groaned in embarrassment, “No. Not always. Sometimes. It's just – we won't see each other for a few days and I like to remind her what she's missing...” he trailed off and winced, “that sounded so big headed. I'm not bragging. I mean, I know I'm big but—Fuck. I'm going to shut up.”

“Mm. Well. Do what you want, but please, do not do it in the living room,” Sherlock told him with a sigh, his tone very slightly light-hearted and roguish, as if he found the idea both hilarious and shamelessly deviant. “Go to your bedroom or the bathroom, at least.”

“I normally don't,” John admitted. “I usually go in bed or the shower, but with everyone being out and – wait… why am I telling you this? Right. Now I know you're not scarred for life I'm going to go. I'll be dying of embarrassment if you want me.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh down the phone that sounded oddly throaty, “Noted. – Oh and I’d suggest that you use a different, more flattering, angle next time. Or as flattering as you can do for an erect penis. It was very amateurish,” he said and ended the call abruptly without saying a proper goodbye or even explaining himself. Though, with Sherlock, that was all quite normal a lot of the time.

John moaned and sat back on the sofa, his cock now completely flaccid, and John looked down at it angrily before putting it away, “Bastard. The trouble you get me into.” He huffed, stalking to the kitchen to make tea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This election is affecting quite a lot of you lovely people, and after it was suggested that Kittie and I try and post another chapter to take your minds of it, we thought to deliver this.  
> Hopefully this takes you away from any real life worries and into the worries of these two fictional, lovely boys instead!
> 
> A bit of warning though, this chapter has a slight bit of angst in it, but I'm hoping that it's not too much. If you'd rather not read angst and think this won't help, our apologies! Best leave it until later!
> 
> * Other chapters will be up at a later time.

Despite the embarrassing situation, things went on as normal. Sherlock was Sherlock, and John, though he kept away from Sherlock for at least two days; found that he was thankful for the unchanging friendship between them. 

The photo was never mentioned again. Sherlock never brought it up and John definitely never did. 

Days passed, cases came and went, and everything was fine, just fine. Well, fine between John and the detective that is, things weren’t fine between John and Sheri, who had begun to regularly complain to John whenever she saw him in person that he didn’t call her or text her as much anymore, that he was ignoring her. She complained about the apparent lack of interest and piss-poor digital sexual appetite, and became agitated and quick to temper, forever wringing her hands and biting her lips. All John could do was apologise with a bundle of her favourite flowers and promise to do better, falling back on the overused excuse of blaming Sherlock and the work he did with him for the lack of contact, even though John was sure he was contacting Sheri a decent number of times, perhaps more so after each new hissy fit of hers. It had been her who’d not replied to him. However, he kept it to himself, for now, and simply nodded and smiled at her whenever she went off in a sulk, saying sorry whenever he could.

Strangely, although their relationship was strained, the physical sexual side was not, and John was pleased to be having sex numerous times a week, keeping him happy, sated and able to deal with Sherlock's constant dramatics.  
It was on a night such as this, when John and Sheri were together, with hot presses of lips and groping fingers, that a latest case came up, a murder-suicide in the North East of London, which had Sherlock pounding on John's bedroom door whilst he was in the middle of receiving a world class blowjob.

“What?” John shouted, looking apologetically at Sheri as Sherlock explained the case through the closed door. John sighed and stroked Sheri's hair. “I'm sorry. I have to go.”

Sheri understood the work John did, she had to, and nodded, redressing herself quickly and giving John a brief kiss before taking the time to whisper in his ear, “Send me a video when you get back,” with a husky voice.

John nodded and kissed her back, rearranging his prick before opening the door and following Sherlock downstairs and into the night. 

After four hours of Sherlock's petulant ranting, and a rapidly solved case, John was back at home and itching to finish what Sheri had started. He said goodnight to Sherlock who was lying on the sofa, seemingly deep in his mind palace, before rushing upstairs and closing the door. His trousers were down and his cock was in hand before he'd even reached the bed, where he picked up his phone, turned on the camera and switched it to recording mode.

Whenever John wanked in the flat, with Sherlock around, he was normally rather quiet, always aware of his astute flatmate’s presence in the area, but tonight, knowing that Sherlock had sunk in his memory map, John allowed himself the opportunity to moan freely. He made noises and gasps, begging for more as he twisted his hand around his tip, and then swore as he spent on his belly. Once the aftershocks had stopped, John ensured that he sent the video to Sheri's contact number, checking three times before he pressed the send button, and heard the whoosh of the sent data.

John waited for a response eagerly, hoping for some sort of reply relatively quickly, but nothing was returned. At first, John thought nothing of it, but after an hour, then two hours, and then three, he was slightly confused. Did she not like it? It wasn’t that late in the day so she couldn’t be asleep?

Unsure of what was happening, John pulled on some pyjamas and left to make tea and grab some of the leftovers from last nights Chinese. Sherlock was no longer on the sofa and his bedroom door was closed, and John wondered if the detective had finally given in and gone to sleep. It was no secret that the man needed it, even after such a short case.  
Moving to the kettle, he clicked it on and set about making tea, opening the bread bin with his other hand deftly, wanting to have some bread with his food, but when he turned and looked into the container, he could only gag and pull away with a look of disgust at what was growing inside.

Reaching for his phone, John pulled up Sherlock's number and typed a message in frustration:

**You are absolutely disgusting. I've found out your little secret, after all of our conversations I can't believe you would hide that from me! - JW**

John sent it, grabbing his tea and the Chinese, and went back up to his room. He got an almost instant reply, stilling his ascent for a moment: 

**What? What secret? I don’t know what you’re talking about, John. Are you okay? Shall I call you?**

Thinking that the reaction was odd for Sherlock who hated making phone calls, John smirked and decided to play along, to tease Sherlock, and carried on his way:

**No. I don't want to talk to you. I'm bloody angry. I can't believe you would disregard my feelings like that - JW**

**I can explain! It’s not what you think! Really it’s not!**

John laughed, shaking his head:

**Oh what was it? A mistake? A surprise for me? You're a shit liar. Don't think for a second that I'm going to clean up your mess - JW**

**I was thinking about backing out! I was going to stop it. I really like you, John. I do. I don’t want to hurt you. I just didn’t think you’d be this nice, this kind, loving and invested in me. I can have it stopped. I can pull out and tell her not to print it, I can delete all the stuff and get rid of it all! I know it’s wrong! She told me you were a womanizing cheater! She said you did the same thing to her!**

John blinked, looking at Sherlock’s name and then down at the message repeatedly with growing confusion and then crawling, dreadful, disbelieving realisation. This… this wasn't Sherlock. John clicked the small telephone in the corner and listened to the phone ring once before a female voice answered, sniffling and crying with a wavering, “Hello.”

“Sheri?” John asked, feeling his heart thundering in his ribcage. “What the hell?”

“I’m so sorry, John!” She sobbed down the line. “I’ll put a stop to it, I swear! It wasn’t my idea and I…I…I was a little dubious and felt so guilty but she…she said these things, made you out to be a horrible person and I…I just…” Collapsing into loud, wet wails, the next few words were completely incoherent. 

John's mind was racing, attempting to put together everything that had been said in text and over the phone. He had a heavy feeling in his stomach and he swallowed hard, “What did you do?”

Sheri tried to explain but John couldn’t understand her over her crying and bawling. He could vaguely make out the same words as before. She was guilt-ridden. She didn’t want to do it. Someone had talked her into it. Convinced her.

“You're not making sense.” John shouted, becoming irate, “but something tells me that whatever you have done isn't going to be good.”

Sheri began bawling again, tiny hiccupping breaths sounded through the wails, wrapped in words that were disjointed and warped by her anguish, and John could only listen and attempt to pick out what those words were. When he couldn't, he simply put the phone down and stared at his handset. Sheri's number was stored under Sherlock's name… which meant that Sherlock must have been receiving John's texts, pictures and videos to Sheri.

Seeing red and rushing from his bed, John took the stairs two at a time until he skidded through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into Sherlock's bedroom door, which he pushed open hard enough that it banged against the wall with a shaking, violent shudder.

Sherlock jerked up in bed, grasping for the covers to press against himself and staring over at John with wide eyes, surprised by the sudden bombardment, “What?” He asked as he shifted to sit up better. He was wearing his pyjamas and looked ruffled and flushed, his brow furrowing deeply as he looked over John’s appearance. “What’s happened? You look…angry…” He trailed off and then pursed his mouth. “You found what was in the breadbin, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I found a lot of things.” John hissed, his face bright red with anger as his hands balled into fists. John attempted to calm himself, breathing through his nose. He didn’t want to punch Sherlock. Not yet. “Why Sherlock?”

“I had nowhere else to put it and, at the time, it wasn’t exactly being used…” Sherlock said, though he kept frowning at John. “You…can’t be that mad about it, surely?” He tried a small laugh but it fell flat and he swallowed, shuffling further into a sitting position.

John couldn't help but lash out with absolute fury in reaction and kicked the mattress, watching as Sherlock looked on stunned. “That's not what I'm angry about. It was. But now it's not.” He continued to hiss. “Show me your phone. Right now.”

Sherlock blinked at him, seeming completely perplexed, but John knew it was a show, a farce, “My phone?” He repeated slowly. “Why? What does my phone have to do with anything?”

“Just a theory I'm working on.” John replied spitting the words with such ferocity that Sherlock flinched in response. The movement rustled the already crumpled sheets and something caught John’s eyes. Tilting his head he redirected his glowering gaze, and realised that he could see the light of Sherlock’s phone shining through the bedding. He had it with him. Under the covers. He had it with him and he was reaching for it.

“You? Working on a ‘theory?’” Sherlock scoffed playfully, trying to lighten the mood as he crawled his long-fingered hand across the mattress beneath that cover. “A theory of what, exactly?”

“This,” John uttered and launched himself at Sherlock, pinning his arm to the bed roughly. Looking up at Sherlock’s suddenly panicking face, John then adjusted his grasp and grabbed for Sherlock's hand, ensuring that Sherlock couldn't press any buttons on the phone as John flung the covers aside. He seized the phone and threw it to one side for the moment, away from Sherlock's reach. 

It was only after the rapid action that John realised that he was straddling Sherlock, and he used it to his advantage, quickly and skilfully taking hold of both the detective's arms, shoving them above his head and into the wall in show of enraged dominance. The position was awkward and oddly sexual, made even more so by Sherlock sudden panting. Throwing the thought from his mind, John secured Sherlock’s arms with one hand and reached for the phone with the other. 

It was unlocked and he blinked at the video, which was paused upon the screen. It had been paused mid movement, but John could recognise his penis anywhere and he rapidly gritted his teeth, “Fuck. Sherlock. I can't believe you would do this. You would watch me like this? Without me knowing and – and – JESUS!” John bellowed, shuffling away down Sherlock’s legs as he rapidly became aware of something poking him in his buttock crease. He let go of Sherlock as if he’d been burned. “You have an erection?!”

“No!” Sherlock exclaimed quickly in reply with an impulsive scowl before he winced, stubbornly not looking at the bulge in his pyjama bottoms as he continued. “I mean, yes, I do, clearly, but it’s not because of that! – I was doing something…else…before I received the video.”

“Liar! – Why, Sherlock?” John asked furiously, slamming the phone down and glaring at him. “You changed the numbers. Swapped them in my phone. Why? I want a proper answer. A real one.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock told him and gradually tried to reach for his phone again, “can I have my phone back please?”

John growled and put his hand around Sherlock's throat in a sudden and automatic move fuelled only by blind anger, squeezing more than a little tight, “Don't fuck with me. Tell me. Why?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he scrambled at John’s hand and arm, kicking out his legs a little, “John. John…let go…”

“No.” John said harshly, keeping his hand firm. “You fuck with me all of the time. You experiment on me, you drug me, you ruin every relationship I have, and now you're stealing photos and videos of my cock? – Brilliant. Excellent friendship skills.” At Sherlock deep grimace and fearful clawing, John sighed and shook his head sadly, feeling his anger subside faintly. “Why, Sherlock? Just tell me why. Why!”

“It was a joke!” Sherlock barked at him with a quick and defensive glare, gripping at John’s arm with abruptly digging and strong fingers. “I thought it would be…funny. I was teasing. I didn’t…mean anything by it. – The way you reacted before was…amusing. It was, in loss of a better word, a ‘prank.’” 

“A prank?” John repeated with a biting, humourless laugh. “A prank is putting salt in the sugar bowl, or putting sellotape across a doorway. It's not watching your best friend and flatmate’s sexual videos. It is not collecting videos of your friend having a wank. Videos that he thinks he's sending to his girlfriend. – Do you think I’m fucking stupid? Sherlock this is—Can you not see how completely ‘Not Good’ this is?”

Sherlock grit his teeth and looked away, “I’m beginning to…” he mumbled, still gripping John’s arm. “I’m sorry. – There. All is forgiven.”

John laughed again, mirthlessly, and let go of Sherlock's throat, climbing off him and standing by the bed. “No. No it isn't.” John said taking Sherlock's phone nimbly and pocketing it. “Not by a long shot.”

“What are you doing? That’s my phone,” Sherlock said, trembling faintly and then lunging for John and it, slipping his hand into John’s pocket dexterously. Like the skilled little thief he was. “Just because I upset you doesn’t give you the right to take my phone, John – I apologised. What else do you want me to do?”

“Nope.” John said, wrestling the phone away from Sherlock and taking it back. “You're not having it. Not until it's been cleared of my photos and videos.”

“I’ll do it now then. You don’t need to take it. – I need my phone, John,” Sherlock told him and grasped for it again, increasing his hold as he looked into John’s face. He took a deep, wavering breath, his mouth tensing and down turning. “I am sorry. I won’t do it again. I didn’t think you’d be this upset with me…” His eyelids fluttered in his upset, face strained, but he didn’t look away.

“You didn't think I’d be upset?” John scoffed bitterly. “Then you're a fucking idiot. What did you think my reaction would be! 'Oh how quaint, I've been sending pictures of my knob to my best friend, what a silly sausage I am! – Oh, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was getting off to them as well! What a pickle!'” John glared at Sherlock’s insistent, shaking fingers. “Fine. Here. Take it.” He threw the phone at Sherlock in a fit of rage. “Take it! Look at my personal pictures; laugh at my base nature, at how pathetic I am for needing such provocative exchanges with someone who returns my feelings. We're not all obnoxious freaks like you!” John felt an impulsive pang of regret at the final comment but sucked a breath through his teeth. “I'm going out.”

Sherlock clutched at his phone with watery eyes and a tense and quivering mouth, “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze to the floor and finally, genuinely, looking remorseful and saddened.

Not wanting to speak in case he said something worse, John simply nodded and turned on his heel. He walked out of Sherlock's room and pulled on the nearest shoes. The brown brogues pinched his sockless toes but he didn't care as he yanked on his jacket and stormed out into the street with a slam of the front door. John felt another moment of guilt at possibly waking Mrs Hudson, but that was forgotten as the anger surged through him once more, forcing him to walk onwards, his head low and his hands clenched into fists as he attempted to stomp out the fury cursing through his veins.

“I like your trousers.” A passer-by giggled, causing John to look down and notice he was wearing his Kermit the frog pyjama bottoms, the ones his sister had sent to him as a gag gift that he actually found quite amusing and exceedingly comfortable. John ignored the comment and continued until he reached Regents Park, where he sat on a bench and simmered and breathed. 

He was angry with Sherlock, angry with himself, and angry with Sheri. He still wasn’t exactly sure what she had done, but it was obviously something she felt deep regret for and therefore, something very bad. He snorted and rubbed his face, finding it ironic that after thinking everything was wonderful and working out for the better, he would find out, on the same day, that his girlfriend and his best friend had been doing something behind his back. What were the chances of that happening? How had this happened? What had Sheri done? And why had Sherlock done what he had done? 

John blamed himself of course, this would never have happened without the snapchat error to begin with, and John had a swift and horrible premonition that Sherlock was storing his photos somewhere. It wouldn't be too hard to imagine Sherlock putting them in a scrapbook and giving it to John as a thoughtful, yet completely inappropriate, birthday gift. Amused at John’s facial expression. Documenting his reaction for some stupid experiment.

John laughed bitterly at the thought and, after another few moments of time to calm down a little more, he stood up and walked back slowly to Baker Street. Hoping that, if someone else saw him, that it was nobody he knew. Having to explain why he was walking down the road in Kermit trousers and dress shoes was not something he wished to do.

Letting himself in, John kicked off his shoes, took off his coat, and dragged his feet back up the stairs, rubbing his hands together and deciding to make more tea.

Sherlock wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen, still brooding in his bedroom, but John ignored him, leaving him to mope, happy that Sherlock felt responsible about what he’d done. He hadn’t meant to hurt Sherlock before, yet sometimes Sherlock made him so mad! John settled on the sofa and sipped his tea, feeling the warming sensation flooding through his cold limbs. He clicked on the television, noticing that it was almost 3am and nothing would be on, but flicked through the channels anyway, until he eventually turned it off and just sat in silence, enjoying his drink before sleep took him and he slipped into a doze where he sat.


	3. Chapter 3

He was awoken the next morning by the sound of Sherlock in the kitchen. He was making himself some breakfast by the sounds of it, taking down a plate, using the toaster, putting the kettle on, and rummaging through the cupboards. He didn’t say anything to John as he worked. He just kept silent. Like there was nothing to talk about. Like there was nothing worth talking about! Like nothing was wrong.

“Make me a cup.” John asked, not yet opening his eyes, playing along with the ignorant scene. His shoulder was sore from the awkward position he had slept in and he ached all over. “Please.”

“At least you’re speaking to me,” Sherlock mumbled in return, his voice a low monotone. 

John felt the rage build up and bubble out before he could stop himself, “Ah yes, because I'm the one in the wrong for ignoring you. Of course.”

“…I wasn’t implying that,” Sherlock replied and then ceased all movement, not making another sound for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was with a tone of annoyed misery. “How many times must I apologise to you?”

“How many videos and pictures did you receive?” John asked.

Sherlock exhaled, “All of them since the first mistake.”

Suddenly everything clicked into place. The reason why Sheri had said that he’d been ignoring her and not texting her as much, she wasn't receiving the texts. Sherlock was. 

“I need to know why, I don't understand why. I think I do. But I need you to…I need you to confirm it. To tell me if I’m wrong. I need to know why.” John mumbled, looking over at Sherlock. “Why you would want them? Tell me. – And don't say a prank again, because that's bullshit. You don't understand that type of humour. I literally caught you in act, didn’t I? Tell me. Talk to me.”

Sherlock was grimacing and was staring down at his feet, his fingers flexing as he curled them into loose fists rhythmically, “I knew you’d find out but I wasn’t expecting you to be so angry. – Obviously you’d not be pleased, but I…” He sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know what I thought…” He turned his back on John and carried on bustling around.

“Sherlock, you stole my intimate photographs.” John explained slowly and clearly. “You went into my phone and changed the numbers. Changed them purposely, with an obvious goal in mind. You deceived me. You…embarrassed me. And you’ve enraged me. I just want to understand why you went through the trouble. Especially considering you think that sex and relationships are weaknesses. Why would you bother?”

Sherlock didn’t respond and instead grabbed the toast from the toaster as it popped up, and began spreading butter over it, his back still turned to John and his head down. His shoulders were tense and he was clenching his toes against the tiles, but he didn’t speak. He was obviously uncomfortable and stalling and upset.

“Did you… like them?” John conjectured, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Is that why? Hm? You did, didn’t you? Tell me!”

“Do you want toast?” Sherlock asked in a mumble.

“I want answers, Sherlock.” John replied. “We can't move on until I know why. I don't want to be angry… I don't want for this to grow between us so we can’t be friends.”

“You won’t want to be friends with me anyway,” Sherlock replied sharply.

John winced, wondering what else was to come. What else Sherlock had done. “I don't know that until you explain.” John replied, suddenly trembling with adrenalin.

“You’ll never forgive me properly. It’ll hang over us no matter what…” He said, his head bowed as he dragged the knife harder over his toast with a tensed hand. “You’re right. I am a fucking idiot.”

John sighed, rubbing his head tensely “Look. Yes, you're an idiot and yes, I'm still very, very pissed off with you for this. It might take days, weeks or months to forgive you fully, but if I understood the reasons behind it, then I might be more… inclined to do it quicker. If it was an experiment then just say so. You can't make me any angrier than I already am.”

“That then. Experiment. Sure.” Sherlock told him without any conviction, and moved to the kettle once it clicked, making himself a coffee and John a tea with stiff arms and hands.

John scowled darkly, “Forget it. Just forget it. If you're too stubborn to explain, then fine.” John spat, pushing up roughly to stand and walk out. However, as he did so, as he stood, a sharp shooting pain and cramping of his thigh muscles had him gasping and grabbing the sofa with a stifled cry of agony. It had happened before, many times, but for it to happen now was somehow more frustrating, more embarrassing and harrowing than the times before. John wanted to leave and get away from Sherlock and his taut back and shoulders, and his rebuffing tone.

“What does it matter why? I just did it! I did it and I didn’t care about the consequences and I didn’t think about how you’d feel when you found out!” Sherlock bellowed, throwing a teaspoon down in the sink. He fumed silently to himself for a moment and then brought John’s tea over to him, putting it down on the coffee table. He eyed John’s leg, his stance and very quickly, his face, and grabbed him, pushing him back down on the sofa. “Sit.”

John, in too much pain to fight, simply fell back, bouncing slightly on the springs as he grabbed and attempted to knead his leg as it continued to tense in a spasm. Sherlock shoved his hands away irritably and took hold of John’s thigh with hot hands, massaging and pressing at the muscle before following it down to his shin and rubbing back up again. He eased the pain with skilful fingers and a terse expression, soothing and stroking John’s leg with affection that wasn’t visible in his face. It helped, immensely, and John couldn’t stop a relieved, delighted sigh from escaping as Sherlock palmed and rubbed up from his kneecap, his long fingers circling. 

“She's up to something.” John grumbled as Sherlock worked. “Sheri. I was texting her when I thought it was you. I said I knew about the secret – meaning your breadbin experiment – and she said she didn't mean it and would stop it. I don't know what it is.” He sadly rubbed at his face with a hitching breath and a grim laugh. “Two people I cared about in one day. I'm lucky…”

Pausing for a second or two, Sherlock tilted his head, and then continued the treatment of John’s leg, “I’m sorry,” he whispered, glancing up into John’s face after a moment, his brow furrowed in shame.

“I know.” John replied, unable to give Sherlock any further reassurance. “Would be nice to find out what she had planned though.” Sighing with relief, John flexed his toes and nodded. “Thanks, that’s better.”

Sherlock let go of him, “I’ll find out,” he murmured, but before he moved away, he cringed and ran a hand over his face. “I fancy you…” The admittance was quick and low, and he moved up and away as soon as he’d said it.

John nodded at the first part before stilling and gaping, his mouth open wide in utter shock, “S-sorry?”

“I said, I’ll find out. Won’t take me long,” Sherlock said, back in the kitchen.

“Yep. Got that bit. Thanks for that but… you said you – you fancy me?” John asked, tilting his head. “Like – Fancy fancy me?”

Sherlock ducked his head, “Yes,” he mumbled, biting into his toast swiftly in embarrassment and sudden shyness.

“Oh.” John mumbled. “Oh I – and that's why the photos… Of course. Right. Right well that's – fine. That's fine.”

“No it isn’t,” Sherlock scoffed around his mouthful, chewing and keeping his head turned away. “That makes it worse.”

“Well, yeah, but it actually… it also sort of makes sense. More sense. I mean, it's still a shitty thing to do but – it sort of explains it a little.” John said, his cheeks flushed and pink at the confession. He was amazed, honoured, surprised, confused, and giddy all at once and the majority of his anger melted gradually away in the seconds that followed. John felt the first sparks of fond sympathy for the man and sighed as he sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Why didn't you tell me? Did you think I would be – Distant? Or disgusted?”

“How could I tell you? Why should I? It wouldn’t change anything. It would be a waste of time. – Not to mention how much more distracting you would be. How awkward and annoying you would be. How…pitying, ” Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know why I did what I did. I just…I saw that photo of… you and…and I…” He trailed off with a swallow and the blush, John noticed, began crawling up his throat in arbitrary patches.

“And you what?” John coaxed, wanting to get all of the truth from his flatmate, wanting him to open up, for once.

“Nothing,” Sherlock grumbled, eating another bite of his toast.

“No, come on. I want to know. Don’t close up on me now, Sherlock. You owe me an explanation. You owe me a lot more than you’re giving, and you know that. – I’m flattered by your…interest, but that alone won’t get you out of trouble, that won’t make me forgive you completely. Whether you like me or not, what you did was wrong and I want to know why you did it, want to know the stupid reason behind it all.” John lifted his eyebrows but Sherlock kept on eating, avoiding eye contact and retaining his ignorance to John’s expectant look. “Right.” John mumbled, nodding in aggravation. “Okay. Fine. – I'm going to shower--” 

“I don’t know why I did it!”

John glared, “Yes you do, Sherlock. You don’t just do something for no reason!”

“It…it was just a mistake…I wasn’t—”

“It all started from the first time that I…accidentally sent that…image…to you, right?”

Sherlock’s jaw jumped and twitched as he clenched it, grinding his teeth, “Clearly…”

“Did you know you wanted to do what you did then? Was it after? Did you…I don’t know, did you almost become addicted to--?”

Sherlock’s hand hit the counter as he lowered it roughly, scatter toast crumbs, “I don’t know!”

With a loud, harsh sigh, John stood up, happy that his cramp had gone, and took his tea, drinking some with a tight smile after three minutes of nothing but rigid silence, “Thanks for the tea…”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock replied, looking at him and then glancing away. “…John…I am sorry…”

“I know.” John smiled softly, and walked over to stand beside him, squeezing Sherlock's arm. “I know…”

The day passed in much the same way, John trying to get Sherlock to open up and explain himself, and Sherlock shutting himself and the questions down with a tantrum or thick silence. He disappeared someway into the afternoon, leaving John alone in the flat to fester in his confusion, anger and a strange churning of feelings that felt heavy and constricting around his chest, around his heart. Had Sherlock always had these feelings about him? Had there always been something there, something building, and the stupid, embarrassing snapchat incident had somehow snapped the already taut and shaking string between them? John frowned at his own reflection in the mantel mirror and pressed a hand to his chest, rubbing it. The more he thought of Sherlock’s confession and less about what he did, the more the feeling in his chest expanded and throbbed. Sherlock was married to his Work. Perhaps this was a brief lapse in his judgement? A silly crush he’d soon get over? For some reason, John wasn’t sure he liked that thought too much.

He didn’t see Sherlock again until the next day. John was sitting in his armchair reading the paper when he heard Sherlock stomping up the stairs, and suddenly the air around John seemed too thin, too brittle. Since they hadn't really spoken to one another – not properly at any rate – since Sherlock had done what he did and had then admitted that he was attracted to John, things were obviously still felt a little weird. John wanted to suddenly run away from the entire situation, even if his heart seared and his stomach flipped over in gladness when Sherlock walked in and handed him a blue file with a flourish of the hand.

“…What's this?” John asked, and when Sherlock did nothing more than blink slowly, watching him with an expression of faint annoyance, John sighed and opened it, only to be greeted with a rather glossy print out of his hard erection. Embarrassment flamed up John's face and he blushed brightly before he closed to file with a snap. “Is…is this a joke? Did you print these?”

“No,” Sherlock frowned. “It’s what Sheri was doing. What she’d given to her journalist friend who was seemingly fabricating some story about you to get a nice big spread in the newspapers and magazines, as well as trying to sell your ‘nudes’ for extra cash. – Sheri had saved all the texts and images and videos you had sent to her and was giving them to her friend, to use against you in some way. Apparently this friend had tried to do the same thing with me, but found out you were an easier target.”

“Oh fantastic.” John moaned, putting his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. This is everything though, right? You got everything? Not just the physical copies but the digital ones as well?” He panicked. “I don't want to end up on any websites...”

“Everything is fine now,” Sherlock told him with a small, awkward smile that disappeared as soon as it had graced his face. “It was quite easy too--”

John suddenly burst into humourless laughter, giggling until tears ran down his face, and only laughing harder when Sherlock blinked at him widely. “Oh God. This…this is…Sherlock… Do you know what?” He snorted and waited until Sherlock frowned in confusion. “You might have actually done me a favour! Your little…thing, your whatever it was, your invasion of my privacy, it stopped me sending more to her. Sending them to you instead meant that she had no more information on me to pass on. That’s why she was so annoyed and agitated whenever she received nothing from me!” He laughed, clutching his tensed belly. “Fucking hell my life is weird…”

Sherlock huffed and blushed deeply, shifting his stance, “She would like to talk to you. Sheri. She told me she wants to speak with you. I assume she wants to grovel and apologise,” he murmured.

“Yeah? Well she can fuck off.” John spat, all laughter abruptly coming to a stop as he sat back and then opened the file again, making sure the photos were hidden from Sherlock. “I don't want to see her again. Ever.”

“…And what about me?” Sherlock asked, looking self-conscious and overly uncomfortable, avoiding any sort of eye contact. “I realise you want answers from me. You want…something more…and because I’m all but ignoring that, you’ve still not fully forgiven me. I’m not sure you ever will either… Which is fine, it’s understandable. I know what I did. It was wrong. I always knew it was. I just…I have no other reason that I did it other than I just…couldn’t…help…myself…I’ve been feeling this way for a while now and it all just…” He winced, trailing off, and then let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I suppose love is blind…blindly stupid.”

The feeling in John’s chest imploded and he suddenly reached for Sherlock, pulling him down and planting a clumsy kiss directly on Sherlock's plump lips. Both men froze in shock at the contact, but John ran an instinctively soothing hand through Sherlock's hair, calming him slightly before he pulled away. “I – I have no idea why I did that or…why that happened.” John admitted, utterly stunned as his actions. “I'm going to… go… away. To think.”

“…All right,” Sherlock said with a thick, husky, and shaky voice, staring at John as his face flushed. He stumbled back a step, and then another one, lifting his hand to his mouth.

John stood up, spilling the contents of the file to the floor. Pictures of his penis littered the carpet in a collective hush of silky paper, but he simply turned away and walked towards the stairs to his bedroom, giving a final look back at Sherlock, who looked entirely spaced out as he touched his lips.

“Fuck.” John whispered to himself and took the steps two at a time sprinting to his room.


	4. Chapter 4

The moment he shut the door he leaned against it heavily and covered his face, breathing deep and trying to calm his racing heart. What had he done? What had just happened? How had that happened? The strange feeling in his chest was hot and blooming, and he dropped one hand down to rub and knead his torso with a frown. What did this mean? He’d never kissed a man before, not like that, not while feeling what he had, not when the other person liked him in that special, certain way. John recalled Sherlock’s words and shuddered, moaning low in his throat wretchedly and pushing off to pace around his bed to the window and back again six times before he finally sat down. What was he going to do?

The moment he did sit down, was the moment Sherlock decided to knock on to his door, and John looked up sharply as he spoke through the wood, “John? I…made you…tea?”

“Ah. Um. I see. Didn’t you hear what I said? I need time to…to…Christ. All right. Thanks. Er – yeah. You can come in. If you want.” John stumbled over his words. “I'm decent—Not that I’d have any need not to be. Though, of course, it is my room so…I can…be…whatever…I want…to be…”

Sherlock entered somewhat timidly and held the mug aloft for a moment, as if he were surrendering with a white flag, “Here. I thought you’d…need it,” he mumbled, grimacing in awkwardness and peering over at John from under his fringe, like a shy child may do.

“Got any brandy? Because I think I need something for shock,” John joked, smiling diffidently at him. “I'm – I’m sorry about that. Well, I'm not sorry. I'm not. I don’t know…what I am…about…about what I did but…I should have asked first I think, or at least talked to you about it before I just – lunged at you. That wasn't good of me. I'm sorry.”

“I liked it, so it’s fine. M-more than fine,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat when his voice cracked as he uttered the last word. “I, um, well, you know where I stand with…things, so…so it’s…it was…good. Very good.”

“Um. Yes. It was…it was nice. I…I liked it too.” John admitted cautiously. “Probably shouldn't have liked it as…uh…as much as I did because – well – I've never…never done that before. Not with…with a man and not with…the…emotions that…I…that was…there…during…” John winced and scratched the back of his neck, staring down at Sherlock’s feet and tried to reign in and work out what he was feeling. “God. This is awkward. – I don’t know what’s going on. – I’ve never… fancied a bloke before, not really, but… since finding out about your feelings…well, something…changed…I guess, which was likely to happen, if just a little. And then you went and said what you just said downstairs and…and it’s…and it’s something I can’t…something that I—I can't stop thinking about you differently, all right? Since yesterday there’s been…a lot on my mind and there’s been this weight in my chest and I…I just…there’s obviously something, otherwise I wouldn’t have kissed you.”

“…Really?” Sherlock breathed, his face lighting up in optimism for a moment or two, before he cleared it and shifted on his feet. “It’s possible that you’re…confused. You can’t just…change overnight. It doesn’t work that way.”

“It might not have been overnight.” John acknowledged in a low mumble, patting his bed in invitation after a fleeting pause and moving to sit against the headboard. “Before.” He gestured with his hand in a way that meant a long time back. “When we first met, and you thought that I was hitting on you and I…I said I wasn’t, because I wasn’t. It admit that there was…something – there’s always been something – but I don’t know if I…I fancied you then. There was something, but it…it wasn’t—God I don’t know what it was. I didn't want to admit anything like that because I wasn't gay. Still aren't really. Maybe it was just a type of – hero worship or whatever?” He blushed and clenched his hands, rubbing his knuckles on his thighs, as he lowered his voice. “But…I do…have always…um…thought about you in one way or another…if you…catch my meaning...” John trailed off, looking down at his hands.

“…Yes. It was…somewhat the same…for me too,” Sherlock told him as he sat down with an anxious and self-conscious air. “It was back when we first met that I also…felt…differently. Not instantly, you understand – I found you…attractive, obviously, but I started…liking…you…that way…later.”

“Yeah.” John nodded in understanding, letting out a deep, wavering breath. “I had no idea you even thought such a way about anyone, let alone that you’d feel like that about me. You were ‘married to your Work’ and you never showed any interest, and I didn’t know what…what I was…what it was that I even felt about…you…so I just went on as normal and looked at women and got girlfriends. – I don't think I was ready to accept it. What I might have or might not have been feeling towards you. And the fact that I might be a little… you know…that way inclined.” He smiled reticently. “Sorry I didn't tell you…”

“Don’t be. You didn’t have to tell me. You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s not a law that you must tell everyone you know and meet your sexual preferences,” Sherlock scoffed with a roll of his eyes, picking at John’s bedding shyly. “I should have seen it anyway…you shouldn’t have to tell me because I should have seen it. I should have known. Perhaps not entirely, but I should have—”

“I might kiss you again.” John whispered, interrupting him. “Is – God – is that okay? Just to see. Just to…just to…understand what…is happening…”

“Muh-more than okay,” Sherlock said, stumbling over his words a little. “But why? Are…are you sure?”

“Yes. No. – I don’t know!” John cringed. “Everything is so ridiculous! What you did was ridiculous – and wrong – what Sheri and her weird journalist friend did was ridiculous… and I’m only now remembering Sheri asking me really weird questions about my past girlfriends and you…Jesus Christ, what is this world? What is going on?—We need to go back over what Sheri did or what she thought she was doing. And why this journalist friend even thought doing this would be a massive payoff, I mean, what was she thinking?”

“John…”

“So ridiculous. I might as well be…ridiculous too,” John said and then rubbed his face, “wait, no, that doesn’t sounds nice…”

Sherlock huffed though his nose in amusement, “It’s okay, John. – But you shouldn’t do it for that. I, um, I really don’t want you to pity me, John.”

“I’m still angry at you,” John told him with a hard stare. “I will be for a bit longer, I think. This…thing…doesn’t change that fact. What you did was—”

Sherlock turned his head aside and cut him off briskly, “I know.” 

John nodded, biting his bottom lip, and making his decision, he reached to take Sherlock's hand. He entwined their fingers tightly and then, with his other hand, stroked across Sherlock's cheekbone as he turned Sherlock back toward him and leaned over, carefully brushing their lips together in a gentle caress, barely a whisper of a touch. It shot buzzing, sparking, roiling ripples down his spine, and John exhaled at the sensation and pulled back, peering into Sherlock’s vulnerable and open expression. With another breath, John cupped Sherlock's jawline, tiled his head and deepened the second kiss, experimenting and enjoying the changing sensations as he basked in the rough scrape of stubble that gave him an extra thrill.

Sherlock breathed softly through his nose and then let out a ragged, slightly stifled moan, returning the kiss with a surge of excitement and frantic energy, which took John completely by surprise, almost bowling him over. Sherlock grabbed at him, dragging him closer with such focused need, that they bumped noses with a collective wince when he shifted his head to the other side. With a muffled apology, Sherlock kissed John again and happily sighed when John responded by opening his mouth a tiny amount, letting his tongue flick out across the seam of Sherlock's lips, begging for entry with a deep and filthy groan that he couldn’t seem to stifle. His cock was hard already, he could feel it pressing against the zipper of his jeans, but John ignored it, focussing instead on making Sherlock moan again. Although he would never admit so aloud, John flat-out adored Sherlock’s voice. Every pitch of it, every layer, every syllable uttered. He might not always fully enjoy what Sherlock said, but he loved the way he said it. 

With a whimper, Sherlock submitted to the kiss in eagerness and groped at John’s arms and shoulders with abruptly clumsy fingers. At that moment he was wanton and flirtatious and desperately fervent, things that John never thought Sherlock would or even could be. John growled with the sudden notion of it and let his fingers tangle in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head to one side to kiss along and down his throat before making the exquisite journey back to Sherlock's shapely, wet and parted mouth. John was suddenly, blindly, and overwhelmingly desperate and horny. His brain screamed at him to go slower, to take a breath, to think, to pause, but his body was begging him, screaming to him, demanding him to just push Sherlock back and rut against his sharply toned stomach, pelvis and shaking hips, until they were both spent and sticky.

“Yes!” Sherlock gasped against John’s lips, as if reading his mind, and clutched at him, yanking him closer with a sudden and strong jolt of impatience and desire, slamming into him and sending them both tumbling to the bed in an inelegant heap. Sherlock moaned gutturally and then frantically tried to have John between his legs, kneeing John accidentally in the stomach as he squirmed, not once, but twice.

“Ow!” John hissed, pulling away, and froze in creeping realisation. The momentary pain had thankfully stopped everything in its tracks and John took a long, unsteady, inhale, trying to be more rational about the escalating situation. “Sherlock. Sherlock, wait. Stop a moment – We need to go slow. I—I don't know how far I want to go. I've never done…this. Any of it. Not with…not with someone with matching genitals.” He said, gesturing between them awkwardly, and noticing for the first time, the large, prominent bulge at Sherlock's crotch.

Breathing hard and fast, to the point of almost hyperventilating, Sherlock blinked up at him, trying to focus, “Right,” he breathed, trembling from head to toe and flushed darkly in arousal. His face and neck a mass of erratic red blooms. “S-sorry…”

“No, no don't be sorry.” John smiled, kissing Sherlock's forehead, seemingly on instinct. “I just – I’d rather take it slow. Don't want to rush into anything and mess it up. Why don't we…deal with these,” he smiled self-consciously down at his own erection, “and then we can eat something downstairs? Spend the night together.” He tried another smile and lifted his eyebrows, trying to ensure Sherlock understood the word 'together' in every meaning.

“If…if you like. Yes,” Sherlock said with a nod, lifting an unsteady hand to his own pinkly mottled face, looking extremely embarrassed over something. “I’d like that.”

“Good. Right. Yeah.” John smiled and nodded. “I would too.” Lying back on the bed slightly, John tried to calm himself and watched Sherlock as he stood on shaky legs, turning from the bed and toward the door. Before Sherlock could take a step, something formed in John’s mind, and he grinned stupidly, filthily, as he lunged forward and spanked Sherlock hard on the backside with a low groan. “God…sorry. Jesus. I…um…I suppose I've just always wanted to do that.” He laughed and then swallowed, surprised at his actions and his confession, while his palm throbbed. “You've got a pretty perfect arse, you know? Has, uh, anyone told you that?”

Sherlock, who had stiffened with a tense step forward from the blow, suddenly stumbled the last few steps, crashing into the door and then the wall as he choked on his next breath and juddered, arching over as he slid to the floor on abruptly buckling legs. Any mirth or pleasure John had felt was instantly replaced by shock and then rapid anxiety when he noticed that Sherlock’s eyes were rolled up under fluttering eyelids. He watched Sherlock tense further, deathly silent, and then he suddenly let loose a loud, deep, reverberating groan. It shook through the entire room, vibrating through the mattress under John, and for a brief second John was paralysed with a mixture of arousal, surprise and concern.

“Shit.” John gasped once he’d gotten a hold of himself, and threw himself from the bed to haul Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock was violently trembling under John's fingers and for a moment, for an extremely fleeting, crazy moment, John thought Sherlock might have been having a seizure. “Sherlock? Are you alright? What happened? – Christ you all but…keeled over and…”

“Nuh-nothing…I’m…I…” Sherlock slurred in a stumble, unable to focus for a few long, awkward moments, while the muscle of his thighs, hips and stomach twitched in a rough spasm. “I’m fine…”

“Fine? Look at yourself!” John checked Sherlock's hot and sweaty forehead and then placed his fingers on the man's pulse. The vein fluttered rapidly under the pad of John’s index and middle fingers, and the doctor could only frown at the symptoms, before the heady smell of male ejaculate reached him. His cock twitched in both sympathy and intense interest within the confines of his jeans in reaction, just as everything fell into place in his mind. “Oh. Oh!” He grinned, smug and slightly proud. “I did that? Just from kissing and smacking your arse?”

“…No,” Sherlock mumbled, embarrassed by it, even as he leaned into John with a shudder and a jerk of his hips. He tried to hide his face, to avoid eye contact, and John let his grin widen.

“Shame.” John mumbled, pressing his lips to Sherlock's temple, incapable of denying himself the action. “Because if I had… then that would have been the sexiest thing I've ever seen.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in pleasure at the touch and shifted, “Really? Well…perhaps…perhaps it is then…a little…” he said under his breath, peeking up at John through his lashes and a wild, rebellious curl with a new blush and a small smile. 

John laughed and then reached to move said curl aside, the atmosphere changing instantaneously, “…You're beautiful,” he said tenderly, stroking all of his fingers through the sweat-soaked hair of the hypersensitive detective, moving it back from his forehead. “God. Look at you. – I should have told you that years ago, you know. Should have said you were amazing and brilliant and fantastic…and beautiful. So much wasted time...Huh. How is it that watching you come made me this sentimental? – Jesus this is so fast and so weird and so… bizarre.”

Reaching for him in response, Sherlock shakily tried to get back up to his feet, “Hardly wasted. Only in the…orgasm and kissing…everything else was great.” 

John smiled and nodded, unable to stop himself from pressing a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips, “Go downstairs, I won't be long. I mean… I doubt I'll even last a minute after that show,” he laughed.

“I’d…like to watch?” Sherlock asked, sounding meek but looking anything but, as he tugged his drenched and soiled trousers away from his crotch with a look of discomfort and frustration. He was obviously regaining his composure again, as he was able to look insanely pompous whilst doing so. 

“Um. Watch?”

“Yes.”

“Watch me…” John made a crude movement with his hand.

Sherlock smiled alluringly, “Oh yes.”

“Uh. Right. Well…no. That’s still a little fast, Sherlock. – Plus, technically you’ve already seen me do that. Many times. You probably still have the bloody footage! No. No!” John laughed. “No. You’re not going to see my…well, my dick. Again. I didn’t see yours. And there’s a huge bloody difference from what you did and what you want me to do.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow, seemed to deliberate, and then began to reach for his trousers, “All right.”

“No!” John snorted, swatting at him and then getting up, rubbing his face. “God. No. Don’t do that. Not right…not right now. Just wait a moment.” He turned his back on the slumped detective and took several even and deep breaths, trying to rationalise and go over his feelings and thoughts once again, trying to ignore the throb of his groin and the itch of arousal on his skin. 

It took a moment or two, but in the end, John decided to throw caution to the wind and turned back with a loop of nervousness and a flutter of his eyelashes as he nodded, stepping backwards toward the bed and holding out his hand for Sherlock to join him, “All right…fine…let’s…um…let’s try that. That would definitely sort things out. Having you actually here. Yeah. Yeah, more so, I mean. – Shit, I don’t know what I mean, just get over here.”

John paused as the edge of the mattress dug into his legs and cautiously unzipped his jeans, letting them fall to the floor after a brief hesitation, watching Sherlock watch him. John felt awkward and edgy standing in his pants, especially when said pants weren’t leaving much to the imagination because they were practically translucent with pre-ejaculate. Not that Sherlock needed to imagine. He’d seen it all before. A lot.

“Okay…this is fine…absolutely fine,” John cleared his throat and sat, shifting up to then lie down, reaching for Sherlock again. “Come here. Stop…gawking and just…get here. Lie with me.”

Sherlock scrambled up gangly and all but leaped over to crawl against him, pushing close to John’s side with an excited breath, “Can I touch?” He asked in a rush.

“Can you--? No! We…that wasn’t the deal.”

“Technically we didn’t exactly—”

“If you do, I won't last five seconds, all right?” John disclosed in a rush and a wonky smile. With a gradual inhale; John pressed a light kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “Tell you…tell you what… my, uh, my nipples are very sensitive … so if you wanted to stroke and… kiss them or…something, then I wouldn't complain.”

“Yes, all right. I’ll do that then,” Sherlock nodded, leaning over him in anticipation, eyes glued to John’s body with something that looked a lot like impatience.

“Okay. Good. Okay.” John rolled his t-shirt up, hooked it under his chin, and bared his torso to Sherlock. Although not quite as toned as it once was, he still had good definition, and there was a small smattering of hair across his chest as well as a faint line from navel to the hem of his underwear, all in a mix of blonde and silvery grey. “Right…I’ll just…go shall I?” John asked, his fingers moving to his pants, and Sherlock, in response, delved for the nipple closest to him, kissing it and then licking around it with his tongue, sampling the textures with interest and an impish glance into John’s face.

“Jesus!” John gasped, his hips rising from the bed and his breath rushing out in a garbled shout. “I think… one minute might be too much of a generous guess if you keep doing that.” Putting his hands into his boxers, John slicked his hand with pre-ejaculate before wrapping it around his shaft. He could almost feel Sherlock's eyes on his hands, waiting eagerly, and so he, painfully slowly, revealed his prick to Sherlock for the first time outside of a photo or video. The colour was darker and the head shinier, and it was throbbing hard in his hand as he gave a measured stroke with a hedonistic moan, which seemed to come from somewhere deep down in his chest.

Adorning John’s chest with kisses; Sherlock nuzzled his sternum and shifted to take the other nipple into his mouth, sucking on it with a lewd and suggestive action, his teeth closing in at the right amount of pressure. John groaned as Sherlock sighed with a small guttural sound, and Sherlock’s trembling fingers were unexpectedly skimming down John’s stomach to dip into his navel. Unsure and shocked at the touch, John twitched, but otherwise allowed Sherlock to continue as John thrust up into his fist until the flushed, red head of his cock peeked from the clenched circle of his fingers.

“Oh God…” John normally needed lubricant when he masturbated, but not tonight, not with the amount of pre-ejaculate flowing down his length and along his testicles. John scooped it up, smearing it along himself some more, before repeating the whole cycle again and again, his vocalisations becoming higher and more breathy as he chased his orgasm.

“Can I touch you?” Sherlock asked in a reverent whisper, drifting his fingertips down from John’s navel to his stroke along his pelvis, and then lower. “…Please?”

“I…I don’t—K-kiss me first then.” John requested and grabbed Sherlock roughly, dragging him up for a passionate and messy snog. Sherlock, overly eager, draped over John and kissed him back hard and deep and wanton, as he reached to entwine his fingers with John’s around his erection, touching him and squeezing with a rumbling groan. He then kissed John harder, messier, and a lot more frantic, clearly overcome. 

Throwing his head back, John moaned and turned the talon like nails of his free hand loose on Sherlock's shoulders and back, scratching and grabbing as his hips rolled and fucked into their joint fist. John could only make small grunt noises as time went on, sucking on Sherlock's tongue between breaths and shaking bodily as the pleasure rose. “S-Sh-Sherlock…” John wheezed, lost to his desires. “I'm close. I'm going to – oh fuck – oh God, you're making me come—Please. Harder. Faster!”

Letting out a growling-like groan, Sherlock complied and tightened his hold, stroking John’s glans and thumbing the weeping slit with abandon, “Like that?” He asked, nibbling John’s bottom lip and then turning to mark his throat thoughtlessly, his breath hot and heavy and loud in John’s ear.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh… fuck yes!” John shouted, his hips snapping tight as he froze solid, his cock twitching and throbbing in their joined hands, before bursting with pulses of ejaculate, which went so far as to hit Sherlock on the chin and soak into the t-shirt resting under John’s arms. John shook, trembling with the intensity of his orgasm, and choked on a hitching moan as he rode through the pleasurable waves, spilling hotly again and again across his belly and groin until he was spent and boneless, huffing and gasping into Sherlock's hair.

“…Oh,” Sherlock breathed, amazed at the amount as he leaned away and trailed his fingers through it, wiping at the smear at his chin, only to then suck it into his mouth to taste. He spun the flavour around his tongue and then began possessively driving his fingertips through the mess on John’s stomach.

“Oh Jesus… If I could go again, I would after seeing that.” John laughed breathlessly as he attempted to enjoy the afterglow, kissing Sherlock’s cheek. “You are a terrible, terrible man Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock preened and leaned into the kiss, enjoying the attention, “Is it always this much?” He asked idly when he reached to dig through John’s beside drawers, finding the tissues without much effort.

“Um.” It took all of John's effort to raise his head and look down at himself. Smirking he dropped it back to the bed. “No. Guess you're special.” 

With a wide smile, Sherlock mopped and cleaned John down tenderly, throwing the scrunched up, soaked wads of tissue paper in random directions after he was done, “I like your penis,” he told him and picked it up gently to dab dry. “A lot.”

“Mm. I'm glad.” John hummed, his eyes fluttering closed at the tenderness Sherlock was showing. “I'm sure I'll like yours too.”

“…And if you don’t?” Sherlock asked as he continued the affectionate swipes of John’s body, helping him take off his underwear completely. “I could always…tuck it away?”

“Don't be silly.” John reached a hand and attempted to brush Sherlock's hair back, only to bat him in the face with his shaky hand. “Sorry.” He giggled. “I'm sure I'll be fine. I like my own well enough, and seeing you have an orgasm did very, very naughty things to me…”

Sherlock moved on to then help John out of his top, chucking it to the floor, and leaned down over him, “All right,” he murmured, watching him with a soft, broad grin. “I’m quite taken with seeing you like this.” 

“Exhausted?” John smiled, cracking an eye open. “Get used to it,” he said flirtatiously.

“Fully satisfied,” Sherlock corrected, wiping his hands and then reaching up to stroke John’s hair, combing his fingertips over his scalp. 

“I like seeing you like this too.” John pulled Sherlock down so that he was lying on John's good shoulder. “Quizzical yet loving. – You've gone all soft around the edges, it's lovely.”

Sherlock huffed, but tucked up into John’s side without any real complaint, “I shan’t stay long…I have ejaculate cooling in my underwear…it’s revolting.”

“Take them off.” John prompted with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Or, if you don't want to be naked, you can use some of my pyjamas… but I don't mind if you're naked…I probably won't mind…”

“I’ll go get changed,” he muttered after several tense moments between them. He pulled away, stretched, trailed his hands down John’s chest possessively, and then got up onto his feet with a stumble, walking with an comfortable looking gait.

“Sherlock?” John called, watching Sherlock turn back. “You really have got a fantastic arse…”


	5. Chapter 5

Since the incident with Sheri, since Sherlock’s confession and the aftermath of both, Sherlock and John had somehow slipped into a relationship of some kind. A sexual relationship was probably the correct term. Sherlock would kiss John every morning, John would touch and run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair whenever he went past him, and they would fall into bed together, whenever the mood arose, and have quite a lot of sweaty, pleasurable fumbling and tumbling. It was awkward, it was clumsy, it was passionate, and was probably the best, funniest, most enjoyable sexual encounters that John could remember having. It was like he was seventeen again, rolling about between tangled blankets, laughing and moaning and basking in the affections and touch of the other person. His time with Sheri, sexually, had been great, but it wasn’t what he had now created with Sherlock. It was nowhere near as brilliant, as adventurous, and as comfortable, which was odd given the fact that John had only ever slept with women until Sherlock. John had done so many things before Sherlock. Everything had changed since meeting Sherlock, and John realised he shouldn’t really be surprised that it would continue to do so, that Sherlock would continue to amaze him.

Although John still hadn’t completely forgiven Sherlock for what he had done, not really, it didn’t seem to creep too often into their lives to cause an issue, and Sherlock seemed more relaxed and happy at the turn of events, at having John find out and return his feelings. John, immensely delighted at Sherlock’s bright and extremely affectionate mood, allowed the subject to stay at the back of theirs minds, and wasn’t exactly bothered when it started to disappear altogether, replaced with another smelly, disgusting experiment or Sherlock’s snappy, rude remarks to friends and family. It had taken several weeks, almost a month and a half, but soon things were almost back to normal with the added bonus of exciting and enjoyable sexual situations, and it was after this time that John found he was horny and alone. Again.

After a few hours of watching porn and edging himself to the brink of orgasm, he finally built up the courage to do what he had planned on doing all day. Reaching for his phone, John flipped open the camera and turned it to face front. He pulled a face at what he saw, grimacing with embarrassment and mild shame, and then put down the phone, too embarrassed to actually press the capture button.

Fuck it. He was a bloody Captain. He'd been to war.

Opening his mouth after a slight hesitation, John pressed two fingers against his tongue and then closed his lips around them, pressing the button rapidly to get a few snaps of the action. Pulling his hand away self-consciously (despite nobody else being around) John looked at the photos and picked his favourite, pulling up Snapchat and Sherlock's name.

“Here goes nothing.” He mumbled to himself before pressing send.

The discussion had been raised a few weeks prior as they had talked about their boundaries and what each of them was comfortable doing. John had agreed with handjobs, kissing and massages, as well as Sherlock watching him masturbate whilst kissing and licking his nipples, but when the subject of oral sex had been mentioned, John shied away. The whole thing seemed a bit too – well – gay, and he was extremely nervous about doing that particular act. Both giving and receiving, oddly. Sherlock had seemed understanding but John could feel the disappointment radiating from him since that night, which is why he now sat with a very, very hard penis and two spit slicked fingers.

His phone buzzed with a text message from Sherlock that merely said:  
**Now? SH**

John smiled cheekily with a huff and took out his cock, snapping a photo and adding a small band of text, which read, “Right now - JW” before he sent it. 

**On my way. SH**  
**Don’t do anything. SH**  
**I might have to wash my hands beforehand. SH**  
**Actually, make that a shower. A quick one. SH**

**I might not make it – JW**

John took another photo of himself after teasing a bead of pre-ejaculate from his tip, making sure to snap the photo as it trickled down his shaft, and sent that immediately after.

After that photo, however, John didn’t get a reply, at all, and for a long several few minutes. There was a slight, panicking moment where John thought he’d sent the image to the wrong person once again, yet as he was checking, and then double checking, and fretting, the front door to 221B burst open and slammed shut with an echoing, shuddering bang. Sherlock bounded up the stairs, tripping over his feet and banging his knees half way there, but carried on regardless. He detoured, briefly, to the kitchen, washing his hands, as he’d said he’d need to do, and then he fumbled over to where John was lounging on his chair, panting and wiping his wet hands on his coat that he’d forgone taking off. 

“Afternoon.” John smirked, stretching his legs out and leaning back. “You look flushed.”

Sherlock blinked and looked down at him, his eyes wide as they locked onto John’s exposed penis, “I ran here,” he got out between heaving gasps. “Well, half ran here. I took a taxi but there was traffic and I…”

“What on earth got you so excited?” John teased, his hand moving to rub and stroke at his erection with a lazy and languid motion.

As if he was suddenly rendered unable to speak, Sherlock actually pointed at John with one trembling finger, before he blinked again and cleared his throat, composing himself with an embarrassed flick of his collar, “Stop it,” he huffed.

John gave a long, final stroke, squeezing more pre-ejaculate from his tip and allowing it to drip freely down his shaft maddeningly, “Okay.” he agreed, reaching up to touch Sherlock's stomach over his coat and shirt. “You going to stay fully dressed like that?”

Sherlock stared at him dreamily for a long moment, unmoving, and then he twitched bodily into motion and shrugged off his coat, yanked off his suit jacket, and pulled his shirt from where it was tucked into his trousers, flashing the white of his stomach and muscled lines of his pelvis in the process. The sight made John’s stomach flip in arousal and anticipation. With trembling, eager fingers, Sherlock unbuttoned the shirt, swearing when he missed one button, and then started work on his trousers as soon as his shirt fluttered open, undoing them with enough force to make the material creak.

“Careful,” John soothed, putting his hand over both of Sherlock's before he dropped to the floor on his knees. He was nervous, but he was also insanely turned on, and so let the arousal fuel his movements as he helped Sherlock shimmy from his trousers until he was left standing in only his ridiculous satin boxers and dark socks. John helped him take off the socks first, trying to keep back the building anxiousness, and then licked his lips in a dramatically lustful way, which he hoped to God wasn’t as awkward and pathetic as it felt. Keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock, he then moved forward and began to nuzzle against the outline of Sherlock's stiff prick through the silken, sodden fabric. It was a sensation he’d not felt before. It was strangely empowering and pleasant, being so close with such a thin barrier between his mouth and nose, and Sherlock’s scorching hard skin.

Hissing in pleasure, Sherlock lifted his hands, leaving them to hover awkwardly in the air, not knowing what to do with them, and widened his stance, “John…are…are you quite sure?”

John looked up, pink cheeked and slick lipped, and nodded, then put his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock's underwear and pulled them slowly down, showing the flushed, engorged, long length of Sherlock, inch by glorious inch. It wasn't the first time John had seen Sherlock's penis, seeing as they had been touching one another for a weeks, but it was the first time he had seen it so close up, and suddenly it seemed monstrous in size. John fought down the sudden, rising panic and shuffled forward, extending his tongue to gently lap at the rosy head.

“Oh Jesus,” Sherlock moaned in a shakily wanton tone, his legs almost buckling with the desire and his need to rut and spend into John's mouth, something he thankfully held back with a straining clench of his jaw and fingers.

Smiling softly, John ran his hands along Sherlock's thighs and then opened his mouth wider, taking the first few inches into his mouth until he gagged quietly and pulled back. With a deep breath, John lapped around the folds of Sherlock's delicate, retracting foreskin and wrapped a hand around the base, attempting to combine both hand and lips, knowing that it was something he, himself, liked when he was on the receiving end. It was difficult, far more physically demanding than John had expected, and he frowned in concentration as he sucked, licked and stroked Sherlock with measured, teasing, varying degrees of pressure, testing which the detective was more keen on.

“You look so serious,” Sherlock chuckled breathily and soft, pushing the hair from John's forehead, “like this is a major operation.”

John pulled off Sherlock's cock with an audible smack, smirking with a quick roll of his eyes, “I'm focussing! Experimenting! – Trying to make you swoon.”

“I don't 'swoon,'” Sherlock grimaced with a snort, obviously disgusted at the thought “I've never swooned.”

John used Sherlock's lack of attention to his advantage and cupped Sherlock's sensitive testicles, letting his finger trail just slightly behind to stroke across Sherlock's perineum. The touch caused the detective to squeak loudly, rutting forward with a slight wind milling of his long, shaking limbs, and he glared down at John's kneeling form once he’d composed himself again, “That was unfair and unjust.”

“Mmm.” John agreed, smug at the reaction but wincing at the pain in his knees when he shifted position. Perhaps he’d have been better off doing it in the bedroom, on the bed? 

Sherlock, continuously vigilant, despite the current situation, reached forward over John's head and reached for the Union Jack pillow on John's chair, holding it out for him with a coy smile. John smiled in return and placed it under his knees, softening the hard floor and easing the strain to his aching legs, as he wrapped his hand back around Sherlock's prick and continued from where he had left off. 

The flat was soon filled with the sounds of gentle, playful slurping and deep, throaty moans as John tormented Sherlock with tongue, teeth, lips and fingers, using various techniques he recalled his previous girlfriends having had used on him. John sighed, wiping away the sweat that dotted his brow, and moved his hand down to rub against his own erection, easing the hard, insistent, throbbing ache, which hadn't lessened at all through the awkwardness of his first ever blowjob. It was something he was glad about, though it was distracting and demanding, putting him off the next few presses of his tongue and lips, evidently drawing Sherlock’s attention.

“Oh God.” Sherlock moaned as he looked, catching a glimpse of what John was doing to himself. He quickly swatted John back and moved to grip the base of his penis with a gasp. “Stop. Stop that!”

“What?” John asked with a frown, frankly annoyed at the interference.

“Touching yourself. You utter fiend. – It's hard enough to keep control when you're torturing me with your mouth! You cannot possibly think I can deal with watching you do that too,” Sherlock grumbled, throwing his head back.

John scoffed complacently with an mischievous lift of his brow and removed his hand from himself to run both back up and down Sherlock's thighs in apology, “I'm sorry. I didn't know I had such an influence on you.”

“Yes you did,” Sherlock smiled with a drawn-out exhale, looking warmly down at John and rubbing a thumb across John's wet and slicked bottom lip. “That's why you sent those devilish photographs.”

Watching as a drip of pre-ejaculate slipped from the ruddy end of Sherlock's cock, John trailed a short and neat fingernail up and down the main vein of Sherlock's shaft before stroking across the wet slit, “Maybe a little.”

Sherlock shivered at the sensation and altered his stance, tangling his fingers into John's hair. John felt a moment of panic, thinking, imagaining that perhaps Sherlock intended to face-fuck him, but he shook it away immediately and relaxed. Moving his head closer again to take Sherlock back into his mouth, John focused on the feeling of Sherlock’s flexing and twitching hand at his head, letting it ground and direct him, and continued licking and sucking until Sherlock became steadily more vocal and loose-lipped.

“John. John,” Sherlock chanted, his hips stuttering back and forth in soft, little strained thrusts. “John it's good.”

“Mm-hm,” John agreed, unwilling to admit to himself how much he actually enjoyed doing this act on Sherlock now that they had found the right rhythm and flow and ease between them.

“I think I might come,” Sherlock groaned, his stomach muscles fluttering wildly. “John, soon.”

Nodding quickly, John took his mouth away from Sherlock's cock. He had already decided that the oral sex part was do-able, however swallowing or tasting Sherlock come was not. So John pulled up and took it off his shirt, and looked up at Sherlock as he continued to stroke rapidly and roughly, pointing Sherlock's tip at the expanse of his bared chest and licking his lips. 

“That's it. It's okay. You can come on me,” John breathed, leaving a hot, wet kiss on the flushed space of Sherlock’s pelvis, whispering against the skin there. “I want you to. I want you to, Sherlock.”

Sherlock mewled in response and arched his back, his eyes rolling as he inhaled sharply and streaked John’s torso thickly, his cock twitching, pulsing, and spurting hard in John's hand. John flinched at the feeling, quickly catching beads of it from falling onto the floor, and pulled back but continued to stroke, coaxing the final drops out before letting Sherlock's cock go, where it bobbed between them, touching Sherlock’s juddering belly.

John kissed Sherlock's quaking thigh with a coy smile, “Okay?”

“More than…okay,” he panted in reply, slipping down to his knees with a wonky, satisfied grin. “That was…” Sherlock trailed off into silence and instead swayed forward, taking John up into a lazy and passionate kiss, uncaring of the mess at his chest as he gathered him up.

Sherlock’s hand touched John’s erection just as the kiss ended, and John bucked in wanton joy, “You don’t have to—”

“Quiet,” Sherlock rumbled, kissing down his throat and taking John in hand, squeezing and stroking with eager tenderness.

Embarrassingly it didn’t take long for John to arch, thrust in erratic abandon, and fill Sherlock’s large palm, “Jesus…fucking…Christ…” he hissed, shivering when Sherlock marked the sweep of his shoulder and spread the warm ejaculate down John’s throbbing length, over his scrotum, and between his legs. John grimaced with a laugh and a hitching breath, and leant into him with a low whine. “I don’t know how to feel about this.”

“I like it,” Sherlock murmured, nuzzling his jaw as he massaged and rubbed at John’s hot and sensitive skin with John’s own essence. 

John scoffed, “Course you do…”

“Wouldn’t mind doing it all again, actually.”

“Hm.” John rolled his eyes and angled his head to capture Sherlock’s lips in a kiss, grateful when Sherlock pulled his hands away to map out his chest and neck. Although Sherlock was mixing their messes, painting and coating John’s goose bump addled flesh, John couldn’t help but moan in delight, almost exultant with being marked and covered by it. It wasn’t the first time. John was sure it was his new favourite fetish.

“Next time though,” John whispered against Sherlock’s affectionate mouth, “we should do it in the bedroom…or the bathroom…somewhere more comfortable.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock hummed. “Not as thrilling though. Not as dangerous. Not as likely to be caught—”

John arched his eyebrow in surprise, “You want to be caught?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock scoffed, “I like the idea at being caught…there’s a difference.”

“Mm. Sure hope so,” John laughed, allowing the kneading and worshipping of Sherlock’s slicked fingers for a little while along, before he got up to his feet with a grunt. 

“You like doing it here. We’ve done it in the living room a few times. You chose here before, made sure to be here today, and so I’m sure you’ll love to be here again—”

John grabbed him by the arm, cutting him off and stumbling them towards the bathroom, “Shut up.”

“Could try the kitchen? Sit you up on the counter so I can—”

“Sherlock…”

“Or I could sit up there and you can—”

“Sherlock!” John laughed, kissing the smirk from the man’s face. “Who’s the bloody fiend now?”

**Author's Note:**

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